


Proud

by theweightofmywords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofmywords/pseuds/theweightofmywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neville visits his parents after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns these characters.

Neville had always hated the chairs at St. Mungo’s. Shifting uncomfortably, he felt tempted to try to transfigure it into something softer. Remembering his struggles with transfiguration, he decided against it and did his best to ignore his discomfort. On either side of him were his parents' beds. They sat idly in silence. Neville cleared his throat. 

"Hi, Mum and Dad," he said quietly, glancing between the two of them. "It's good to see you today. Gran couldn't make it, but she sends her regards."

He hadn't yet told them about the war or its triumphant end. He wondered if there was a point. His eyebrows furrowing, he banished the thought from his mind. They couldn't respond to his words, perhaps, but Neville didn't want to believe that their mental states rendered his conversation pointless. They weren't just empty shells; he knew that in an inexplicable way. He believed that perhaps they could hear him but somehow lacked the ability to respond, the way that Hermione had said that people who were in comas might still hear and feel things. He had to believe that. 

And so, he continued speaking. 

"I fought in a war. Against Voldemort. He's dead now, and I helped. Gran says I fought like you Dad-- bravely." His dad blinked at him, expressionless. 

"I killed his snake. Harry asked me to, said it was important. So I did. I helped train people, er, kids, to fight, and I guess I did an okay job. We won, so I guess I did." Neville looked at his mother, who was folding the wrapper of the candy he had brought for her. 

"Bellatrix Lestrange is dead too. Mrs. Weasley killed her. I thought I'd feel happier about it," Neville's voice became thick. "But, I don't." 

"At least I'm alive though. I'm happy about that." Tears sprung from his eyes, and his face felt hot. It was the first time he had cried. 

"I can't sleep though, Mum. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. I... I killed people. I know I had to, but I wonder if they had kids. I don't know. I don't know anymore." Neville's mother was now looking at him curiously, the candy wrapper still in her hands. 

"Some of my friends died, and I helped carry their bodies. I didn't want to touch them, but then I felt even worse that I felt that way. They were my friends, and I couldn't help them, even when they were dead. I couldn't help them in time, and I hate it. It makes me want to kill those people all over again, and I hate that I feel like that. Did you ever feel that way, Dad? You killed people too, right?" Neville pleaded, raising his eyes to meet his father's. He thought that perhaps his father looked sad, but he couldn't be sure. 

"They say that I'm a hero, but I don't feel like one at all. I don't feel proud of myself. I know I should, but, I don't," he shrugged, using his sleeve to brush tears off his face. He knew it was fruitless to think about questions to which he would never have an answer, but he wanted to ask anyway. Staring at his hands, his voice was barely a whisper. 

"Do I... Do I make you proud?" 

He felt a steady hand on his quaking shoulder. Looking up, he saw that his father had swung his legs off the bed and was now beside him. Though he remained silent, he wore a stern expression, and his eyes blazed through Neville. Neville heard a sniffle, and he turned to see his mother weeping, her hands filled with candy wrappers. She looked at him, and reaching out, she wiped his face. 

For the remainder of the visiting hours, he sat with them in silence, with his father's hand on his shoulder and his mother's hand on his face, and when he went to bed that night, he saw only his parents. They were holding him.


End file.
